


Lightning

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aromantic Bucky Barnes, Aromantic Steve Rogers, Asexual Bucky Barnes, Asexual Steve Rogers, Fire, I mean, I'm ace/aro and I still don't get this whole thing, M/M, Magic, No one dies don't worry, READ THE WARNING ON EACH CHAPTER, Veteran Steve Rogers, Witch - Freeform, Witch AU, Witch Steve Rogers, almost major character death, alright so i say they're in a relationship right?, but it's not mentioned much, but listen it's beautiful and they love each other, but not romatically?, communication is a okay, everyone is very understanding and they love each other, i'm amazing ha I love to make things difficult for myself, questions don't get asked, russian Nat, the share a soul but..., there's happy stuff, they are connected and they love each other, they share a SOUL, veteran bucky barnes, well okay sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7326079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky stares at him, incredulous. He doesn’t speak. He knows - he knows. He knows what that means.</p><p>“What does that mean? The Latin words,” Bucky asks quietly, barely noticing his voice trembling. His very energy is vibrating - his flesh hand is shaking from where he’s gripping the phone a little too hard. There’s something fizzing in the air between them - he feels like he knows the answer to his own question already.</p><p>Steve hesitates. “Particeps anima. Soul sharer,” he mutters, casting his eyes to the floor, unable to meet Bucky’s gaze.</p><p>Or; Steve’s a witch, Bucky’s not, and they share a soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> listen I love ace/aro Bucky and Steve it warms my soul. chuck in some witchey stuff and I'm /sold/. but, y'know, there's not much of that troupe out there? soooooo I wrote my own. enjoy? oh! also, throughout the whole fic, all mistakes are my own!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations in end notes

The first time Bucky meets Steve, it’s not on purpose. He was eight and Steve was seven, and the night was cold; too cold for the start of winter, and it was snowing. The weather _never_ obeyed the rules. His mama had taught him that. Bucky’d been hurrying home from the store with a fresh loaf of bread, racing to get back before dark and worry his mama. He’d think back on it, later, far, far in the future, and wonder how in the world he’d picked up on the whistling, too-slow breaths.

The boy is curled in on himself in an alleyway, so cold that he isn’t even shivering anymore. Bucky’s almost sure he’s dead. But, even as Bucky inches forwards, his boots leaving deep imprints in the snow, there’s a shuddering rise and fall of the boy’s chest. Bucky feels like the weight of a thousand bricks has slid off his shoulders. He puffs out a hot breath of air, steam curling in front of him, and hurries to kneel down beside the frail body.

“Can you hear me?” he asks.

And the boy opens one eye, then huffs out a breath that sounds like it hurts. Bucky stares and _stares_ into that eye, more rooted to the earth than he had ever been before, and feels a jolt of hot electricity shatter down his spine. But it hadn’t hurt. The eye slides closed again, and then Bucky is able to move.

He picks the boy up, awkward with the bread still in his hands, and walks as fast as he can back to his mama’s house. She’d know what to do. And she does. She takes one look at the boy’s rolling head, and makes Bucky put him down on the couch. She instructs Bucky to go and get blankets and put the kettle on. When Bucky returns, his mama is kneeling by the boy’s head, brushing his hair back from his forehead and holding one pale hand in her own.

Bucky hovers by the doorway, eyes wide, ears burning as he listens to the soft, warm chanting. This isn’t something he hears often - his mama never, ever lets him see what she is. But he knows. And there are whispers, all over. _Witch, witch, witch,_ they said. But they never did anything about it, because she was the best damn Healer around for miles. Just because she used herbs and words, turning her away wasn’t worth paying so much more for your dying kid’s hospital bills. So they whispered, and stayed away.

Bucky knows, no matter how his mama tries to hide it. And hovering here, in the doorway, the chanting thrums through his blood and he isn’t afraid. His mama is a good woman, a good mum, and being a witch doesn’t change that. So he walks forwards silently, and his mama glances up. Bucky isn’t looking at her, though. The boy’s lips are blue.

“Bucky, hun, come over here for a moment,” his mama murmurs, voice still threaded with the aftershocks of the mantra. Bucky moves slowly, and leans into his mama’s hand on his shoulder. “Hold his hand while I’m gone, alright? I’ll just be a second.”

Bucky holds his hand while his mum lights a candle for a little more light in the room, and then disappears to the kitchen. The boy, now covered in blankets, shudders and opens his eyes. Bucky watches while he searches the room, the whites of his eyes showing as fear creeps into his blood.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, you’re okay,” Bucky says, voice thick with emotion, because already, this boy means so much to him. And he’s small, sickly, pale, and on the verge of death. Bucky can feel it, swarming around him and touching his shoulders like soft presses of icicles. He shivers, and leans in closer to the boy’s face.

The boy studies him for a moment, the rapid movements of his chest slowing down as he calms. “Who...Are you?” he croaks.

Bucky’s floored, for a moment, by the boy’s voice, but his mama taught him manners. “I’m Bucky. Who are you?”

“Steve,” Steve rasps, and then closes his eyes again, too exhausted to keep them open.

Bucky’s mama comes back then, and sits Steve up. She helps him drink a strong-smelling, warm mug of tea, and then lays him back down again and takes his hands. Bucky’s nose is trained enough by now to recognise lemon and ginger, and a hint of elderflower. It calms Bucky’s racing heart, knowing that his mama is doing everything she knows how to do to save Steve’s life.

His mama’s speaking again, in hushed tones, pressing three fingers to Steve’s forehead, in between his eyebrows. Steve’s eyes are open, watching her, and Bucky leaps about a foot in the air as lightning shatters through the sky outside. It’s a bit dramatic, if you ask him. The air around them is fizzling, almost _humming_ with vibrations. It makes Bucky’s skin crawl, but he’s not afraid.

Bucky focuses on Steve again, and searches his eyes. Steve doesn’t look afraid. He looks...He looks calm, like he knows what’s happening. Bucky’s mama is speaking in Latin, and when she says something in a sharp tone, Steve’s attention snaps to her. Bucky’s heart thuds in his chest, and he swallows, realising his mouth has gone dry.

His mama seems to ask Steve something, and the boy nods, just slightly. Bucky watches his ma’s shoulders drop, and then she removes her three fingers, and replaces them with her thumb on the same hand. She asks him another question, and Steve answers with his voice, this time, in English. “Witch,” he says, and his voice is stronger than before. Bucky’s mama just nods, seeming calm.

Bucky startles when both his mama and Bucky turn to look at him. Bucky shifts uncomfortably, and his mama asks Steve another question, looking in between them. Steve is hesitant to answer, Bucky can see that. But when he does, this time it’s in Latin, too. “ _Particeps anima,”_ he whispers, and Bucky’s mama goes a bit pale, like this shocks her.

Bucky’s so confused, but he stays silent. Steve sighs and seems to melt back into the couch, like all his energy is gone. Bucky’s mama removes her hands and stands up. She holds out a hand to Bucky, and smiles gently at him. “It’s time for bed, Bucky,” she says.

Bucky doesn’t argue. But, “will he be here in the morning?” he asks.

His mama never replies. He falls asleep with a hammering heart, nerve endings tingling with awareness of the sleeping body in the lounge.

  
Steve’s not there in the morning. Bucky doesn’t see him again, not for eighteen years. When he does, it’s not on purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> particeps anima; rough Latin for soul sharer


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all mistakes are mine, and the translations are in the end notes :)

He’s standing outside the bookstore, slip of paper in his hand, staring up at the sign. It’s in desperate need of a paint job, but it somehow looks fine as it it. It reads, simply, ‘book store’. If he concentrates hard enough, his eyes will slip out of focus and the building - wedged in between two apartment buildings - shimmers slightly, crackling with energy. As he’s standing there, debating on going inside, someone brushes past him, their bare arm knocking with his. They carry on, but the moment their skin touches his, he flinches back, biting down a hiss of pain. The person had been prickly, their emotions rubbing onto him and making his skin irritated and sore where they touched him. 

The distraction jolts him out of the limbo he’d been in, and he shakes his head, lifting his other arm to touch at the new sore spot. The cool metal fingers sooth it somewhat, but it still feels like there are stinging nettles under his skin. He pulls on his jacket, just so he can ignore the feeling a bit easier, and then steps forwards, boots making no noise on the sidewalk, and reaches for the wooden door to swing it open. He pauses just before his flesh fingers touch the wood, eyes lingering on an engraved sigil, and a strong whiff of lavender drifts past his nose. 

He feels his shoulders relax at the calming scent, and pushes the door open. Chimes sing out from the movement, and he glances up at the hollow bamboo, their sound settling the nervousness in his gut. He’s not sure  _ why  _ he’s been so nervous about coming here, putting it off till Nat threatened to light his bed on fire while he slept. And he really needs the book.

It’s just. Every time he’s gone past the store, he’d hesitated, like he was waiting for something, and then always,  _ always,  _ a jolt of lightning had shivered down his spine, followed by an overwhelming scent of elderflower. It  _ always _ left him hypersensitive, for hours. So he’d been putting it off. But, now he was here. Inside the shop. And his head was spinning, and despite the lavender and the chimes, he was woozy. Without thinking about it, he reaches up to the chain around his neck and rolls it between his flesh fingers, comforted by the familiar item. The one that reads, respectively;  _ Barnes, James. B. _

He’d tried for Bucky, he really had. The tags ground him, but only slightly. He takes a deep breath, reeling from the strong scent of elderflower, and walks towards the bookshelves. No owner has appeared yet, but there’s a cat sitting on the counter, long fluffy tail twitching at the tip. Its golden eyes are trained on him, watching him in a way that makes his skin prickle. There’s a steaming mug on the counter, and a book with a bookmark in it. Someone’s here, and he’d be able to pick that up even without the clear signs. 

He looks down at his slip of paper, even though he knows exactly what book he wants, and then goes about trying to find it. He’s so engrossed in the search that he doesn’t sense, or hear, the person's presence. 

Bucky finds the book. The deep, rich green spine reads simply; ‘ _ Protection Charms’.  _ He smiles at it, and feels satisfaction seep through his veins. He looks up, and leaps nearly a foot in the air as he catches sight of the man suddenly standing behind the counter, watching him. He takes a moment to calm down, eyes wide and book clutched to his chest. The man waits for him, and - he’s got a goddamn  _ smirk  _ on his face, like this is funny. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a moment, counting backwards from twenty. When he opens his eyes, the other man looks vaguely apologetic. “Sorry about that,” he says.

His voice is like  _ silk.  _ Bucky grinds his back teeth together, head spinning all over again, and sucks in a couple shallow breaths. That’s not - that’s not normal. The man honest to god sounds like silk personified, and his voice feels like calm, sliding over Bucky’s skin like freshwater. Bucky fights to clear his head, aware of the man watching him with vague concern. 

“That’s fine, I was distracted,” Bucky manages eventually, and smiles thinly. 

The man simply blinks slowly, and dips his head once. Bucky narrows his eyes, and then walks forwards, placing the book on the counter. The man looks at it, and then back at Bucky. His eyes are slightly milky, like he’s not really seeing Bucky at the moment. Bucky swallows, mouth dry like sandpaper, and waits. He lets his eyes flicker over the man, taking in broad shoulders, clear skin, blond hair and hearing aids. The man’s hands are big, strong, and his knuckles are white from where he’s clenching his fists. He feels...Familiar.

Bucky’s eyes drift back up and catch on the beaded chain around the man’s neck, and he swallows. Then he looks back at the man’s face, and finds the fog in his - shit, blue, very blue - eyes clearing. The man shakes his head, and the his face flushes and he looks down at the counter, pressing his lips together. “Sorry,” he says. “Happens sometimes,” he continues, voice slightly hoarse. 

This is weird. Bucky knows this is weird. But - “It’s fine. I get it,” he replies. 

The man’s attention flickers back up to him, a little crease in between his eyebrows, and Bucky watches his eyes linger on the chain around Bucky’s neck. Then the man shakes his head, and smiles a little. His face goes smooth, like a cloud has cleared. “Oh, no, not like that. I just - I know you from somewhere,” he hums. 

Bucky frowns. And then - oh. It hits him, just like that, and he feels stupid for not realising it sooner. It washes over him like mist, cooling his skin and leaving him feeling clean and wide-eyed. The elderflower scent is coming straight from the man. “You’re a witch,” Bucky hears himself saying. 

The man looks amused. “So are you,” he murmurs, and reaches for the book to see the price. 

Bucky flushes. “Oh, shit, sorry, I didn’t mean - that was rude,” he stumbles through the words, and the scowls at the ground, irritated with himself.

“You’re fine,” the man says, mirth in his voice, like he’s holding back laughter. 

Once he’s over the initial embarrassment, Bucky catches onto what the man had said. “I’m not a witch,” he says, even though there’s no need to. 

The man looks up, and raises an eyebrow, Bucky’s book still in his hands. “No? You sure feel like one.” His eyes are very blue. Bucky’s blood is humming with the colour. 

“My mum. I’ve got witch in my blood,” he clarifies, and digs into his pocket to get his wallet out. He wonders why he’s having this conversation with a stranger. When he looks back up to hand over the cash, the man is looking at him strangely. Bucky pauses, hand half outstretched from where he was holding the money out. It shimmers at the back of his mind, like some long-ago forgotten memory. He knows this guy. “What’s your name?” he asks. 

The man tilts his head to one side, just slightly. “Steve,” he replies. 

Bucky frowns, and wracks his memory to come up with something. There’s nothing. He doesn’t know him. “Not ringing any bells. Weird. Feels like - “

“Yeah,” Steve cuts in, nodding his head. 

Bucky nods along, and knows that Steve gets it, that he feels the same thing. There’s something in his eyes, though, that tells Bucky that he knows more than he’s letting on. “So, uh, here’s the money,” Bucky says, and puts the cash on the counter.

Steve doesn’t take it for a moment, still standing there silently, searching Bucky’s eyes. Bucky just stares back, skin tingling with the sudden rush of  _ Steve  _ that he picks up on. It nearly knocks Bucky off his feet, and he’s dimly aware of his jaw dropping open. It’s just - holy shit. Steve’s clearly just dropped some walls, and Bucky’s picking up on - everything. Steve is  _ powerful.  _ Bucky can feel it swarming through the air, like Steve’s connected to everything in this building, like he’s everywhere at once. It’s drawing Bucky in, the headrush of  _ light,  _ and he feels himself getting overwhelmed, like he’s drowning in elderflower.

Then it cuts off - sudden - and Steve’s slammed his walls back down. Bucky’s spinning still, and he squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, Steve looks horrified. “I’m - I’m so sorry,” Steve says, and, hell, he’s pale. 

Bucky shakes his head, trying to clear the ringing in his ears. He’d been overwhelmed so easily - he’s always been so in  _ tune  _ with these sort of things, and he’d learnt how to ignore it or deal with it, but this. This was just an  _ onslaught  _ of Steve’s  _ soul.  _ Bucky takes a deep breath, and huffs it out in a laugh. “Holy shit, dude,” Bucky breathes, and Steve blushes. 

“I really am sorry, I’m usually better and controlling that, I didn’t mean to - “

“Really, you’re fine. It’s okay,” Bucky assures him, and then closes his eyes for a moment, still breathing deeply. “Wow.”

When he opens his eyes again, Steve’s putting the money in the register, not looking at Bucky, and the tips of his ears are still red. He hands over the book, and Bucky smiles are he takes it. And, shit, it’s cliche, but. Their fingers brush, and Bucky feels a rush of warmth. And then - nothing. It’s like the constant noise that goes on in Bucky’s mind is just. Quiet. And the awareness of every living thing within a twenty metre radius is just  _ gone.  _ It feels...It feels like utter bliss. Bucky feels his whole body relaxing into a calm, quiet state, and he thinks;  _ Is this how normal people have it all the time?  _ But then Steve’s touch is gone, and everything comes rushing back, and Bucky’s blood is pounding in his ears. 

Steve’s knees seem to give out or something, and he lets go of the book to grab the counter and catch himself. Bucky stares at him, eyes wide. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Steve huffs, and still seems shaky when he manages to stand up straight again. “Fine, I just. You didn’t feel that?” 

Bucky frowns. His energies have been weird all day. Maybe Steve’s own energies are mucking them up even more. “Clarify,” he prompts. 

“It felt like -  _ fulgur,”  _ Steve finishes his sentence in Latin, and the then clamps his mouth shut and clenches his jaw. 

This is so weird. Bucky doesn’t know Latin, but he recognises the language from his ma. He watches Steve for a moment, and then tucks his wallet back into his pocket and holds his new book at his side. When Steve says nothing else, he takes a step back. “Okay. Well, thanks, Steve. See you ‘round,” he says, and hesitates before backing all the way to the door. He doesn’t feel like he can turn his back on someone right now. 

  
When he gets to the door, he has to look away to find the door handle, though. When he looks back, Steve’s gone. The cat mewls at him, and then jumps down from the counter and pads up some stairs and disappears into an open door. Bucky swallows, and leaves the store. If he walks a little faster home, well. No one can blame him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fulgur; Latin for lightning


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all mistakes are mine, yada yada

It’s a full moon tonight. Bucky hasn’t been outside for three days, but Nat had burst into his room and thrown pillows at him till he got up. She had given him a list, and told him to get going, because she had work and a couple of house clients today so he couldn’t be there. That’d made him guilty, because he  _ knew  _ she would’ve moved a few clients appointments around so he could have a little more time alone.

So, he’s standing outside just after noon, and scowling down at the pavement. He’s got his favourite poncho on, though, so that makes him feel a little better. He tugs the strap of Nat’s shoulder bag up a little higher, and sighs, before setting off on the long walk to the bookstore. The energy of the moon is buzzing in the air, heating up his skin and making him restless. It’s probably good Nat made him get outside, otherwise he would have been going insane with pent up energy. 

See, although he isn’t a witch, he still has witches blood - and powerful witches blood, at that - and that means some of a witches abilities carried over to him from his ma. He has a frighteningly heightened sixth sense, and what was sometimes referred to as a form of synesthesia - people's voices affected him in odd ways. He could also  _ taste  _ moods, and pick up on them just as easily. Emotions, mostly. And because he wasn’t a witch, it meant that he couldn’t control or tone down these abilities, leaving him constantly wired like an exposed electrical charge. Sometimes, if he focused hard enough, incantations worked - like protection charms. He could put a block on his own abilities for a couple of hours, or even once, a whole day. But it never lasted. Everything was always so  _ loud.  _

And now, under the full moon, it’s so, so much worse. His blood is hot and his skin prickles. It makes him twitchy. He tries to get rid of it by walking faster, tries to use some of the energy. It’s not too bad, just overwhelming. He gets to the destination faster, though, and heads for the door. He’s been dreading this ever since Nat gave him the list, but something made him stay quiet and come back to the bookstore. 

The door is still glimmering. The energy coming off the building in waves almost makes Bucky turn around and go home, because the moment it hits him, he’s nauseous. He swallows back the discomfort, and walks up to the entrance. His legs are aching, and they feel like they’re going to give out at any second. He grits his teeth and opens the door, ignoring the zap of crackling energy that goes up his arm and jolts his shoulder. 

The door swings open. 

He chokes on air. The room is super-charged, and he can almost  _ see  _ moon-energy swimming in his vision. He can hardly breathe - he needs to get out of here. This is too much, and he knows why. Steve’s not handling the full moon well. Not all witches are affected by it like this, it depends on the type of witch, but some...Some go a little  _ mad  _ with it. They can’t keep a lid on their energies, and it ends up affecting other people - especially those who can pick it up so easily. 

The piece of paper in Bucky’s hand floats to the floor, and Bucky’s seeing black spots. The only way he knows he’s fallen to his knees is the acknowledgement of pain shooting through his joints. He can feel the panic creeping up on him - he knew he shouldn’t’ve come back here, he should have told Nat to wait till she had time and do it herself. The uncontrolled, undiluted energy is swirling around his head, overwhelming him, blinding him. 

He can’t breathe. 

And then - and then he can. Lavender settles over him like a blanket, and he can suck in a big, gasping breath of energy-free air. He blinks once, twice. There’s someone leaning over him, warm brown eyes wide and concerned. Their hands are on him, just a light touch, a faint pressure on his flesh shoulder. Bucky blinks again, trying to clear his head. He can - everything’s quiet. He frowns, and searches the man’s face. 

“Are you alright?” the man asks. 

Bucky’s fish-mouthing, he knows. “Fine. How - how are you doing this?” he asks. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Bucky can see the air around them shimmering, like they’re in a bubble. The man smiles, his eyes suddenly sympathetic. “I learnt after Steve’s first full moon. It’s intense, isn’t it? Not many people pick up on it, though,” he replies vaguely, the lines in his forehead telling Bucky that he’s curious. “Do you think you can stand up?” the man asks. 

Bucky nods, and the guy keeps one hand on him as he helps him up. “I’m - I’m Bucky,” he says, still incredulous. This guys has stopped  _ everything -  _ the blood constantly pounding in his ears, the never-ending crackling energy flowing through his blood like he’s spiked, the  _ noise.  _

“Sam,” the guy replies, and when Bucky looks at him again, he sees that Sam knows more than he’s letting on. 

Bucky lets it go.  _ Witches.  _ “I just - I came here for this. It’s for a friend,” he says, holding out the piece of paper he picked up while they were still on the floor. 

Sam takes it, and looks around the shop. “You’re lucky I’m here, you know. If Steve had found you, he would have freaked out.” Bucky doesn’t question it. Sam knows what he’s talking about. Sam smiles at him, and moves his hand down so he’s grasping Bucky’s forearm. He pulls him gently over to one of the bookshelves, and runs his fingers along the spines of a few books, before taking one out. “This one. She’s a fire witch?” Sam guesses. 

Bucky just nods, and also doesn’t question how he knew that the person he was shopping for was a female.  _ Witches.  _ He runs his tongue over his teeth, and takes the book. He checks the price, and gestures to the counter. Sam’s still smiling, and as they walk over to the register, Bucky lets down the careful guard in his mind a little. Sam’s energy is so - Bucky sighs, the constant lavender calm washing over him in gentle waves. 

Sam’s smile grows a little bit, like he knows what Bucky’s doing, and maybe he does. Bucky feels the flush rise on his cheeks, and busies himself with digging out the cash with his metal hand. “Y’know, I was just refreshing the runes for this place. That probably shouldn’t have happened to you,” Sam speaks up, voice nonchalant.

Bucky looks up, handing the cash over. Sam takes it, eyes searching. “It’s probably the full moon,” Bucky says. “I’m not easy to ward against,” he adds. 

“Witch blood,” Sam hums, nodding to himself. 

Bucky doesn’t question it. Sam’s handing the book over, when floorboards creak overhead. They both look up, and Bucky finds his heart in his throat. Sam’s grip on his forearm tightens a little bit, before relaxing again. Bucky frowns, looking back down at Sam, before movement draws his gaze up to the door at the top of the stairs. 

Steve appears, and he’s got shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. His skin is milky - pale white. He walks slowly, and as Bucky watches him - far too intently, if you’d ask - he sees that he hasn’t got his hearing aids in. Steve looks up when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, and his eyes go to Sam first, and then he sees Bucky. 

His eyes go a little wide, and his mouth opens, and then closes again. “Hi,” he says, and then his focus catches on where Sam’s still holding Bucky’s forearm. He frowns a little, and then he immediately looks concerned. He lifts his hands, and Bucky recognises sign language as he aims it at Sam. 

Sam shrugs, tapping his ear with his free hand, and rolls his eyes. Steve narrows his, and then walks over to the counter. He smiles at Bucky, something flickering behind ocean-blue. Bucky gives him a tentative smile back. “Sorry about the,” Steve pauses, and waves his hand around at the room in general. His voice is a little flatter than last time, but Bucky guesses it’s because he can’t hear himself very well. Bucky gets the gist of it, and revels in the quiet in his mind. If it weren’t for Sam, he’d still be on the floor.  

“S’fine,” Bucky replies, and hopes Steve can read lips. Steve just nods, once, and glances at the book Bucky’s holding, eyes grazing over the title. He frowns a little, before snapping back into focus. His face smooths over, and he looks apologetic again. Bucky just shrugs, and Sam’s watching the both of them, a smile on his face. Bucky glances at him, and then sighs. “I’ve gotta go,” he says.

Steve nods, and smiles. “Hope to see you back again, when it’s a little...Calmer,” he shrugs, and Bucky finds himself grinning. 

“I’m sure we’ll see each other around,” he replies, and takes a step back. He shouldn’t feel the tug at his chest as he does.  

Sam moves with him, and walks him to the door, keeping the contact at all times. He opens the door, as Bucky’s hands are both being used, and smiles. “See you, Bucky,” he says, and as soon as Bucky’s out of the door, he lets go. 

 

The door swings shut, and everything rushes back like a building has fallen down on top of Bucky. It crushes him, and the air in his lungs billows out in a rush. His blood pounds in his ears, and energies scream at him, the noise building back up. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, getting used to it all over again. Then, head still reeling, he turns around to head home. He walks slower than usual, this time. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay okay ya ya read warnings at the end notes, please, very important if you're triggered by some things!!! translations are there, too.

Witches are more accepted, these days. Accepted enough that they can be free about their abilities, although most are quiet about what they are. They’ve been deemed  _ human,  _ as if they ever weren’t. People are kind to witches, treat them the same as they do those who aren’t. Most people. Some, though. Some people aren’t accepting. They see witches, or even those  _ associating  _ with witches, and think letting them live is like spitting dirt on their oh-so clean ancestors, or something. 

Just because it’s illegal to drag witches from their homes and string them up and set them alight now, doesn’t mean everyone suddenly accepts that. Bucky remembers the day the law passed that witches could be regular citizens. He remembers it with bitterness in his heart and bile in his throat. The law had been pushed because of the incident the week before it happened - the last ever burning of a condemned witch.  

He’d been there, to watch his mother scream and burn. 

He remembers being thirteen years old, held back, left alive only because he  _ wasn’t  _ a witch. He remembers the fire reflecting in his mother’s eyes - his  _ ma,  _ the kindest, gentlest soul he’s ever known - and he remembers the pyre crackling and breaking, taking her scorching body down with it. He remembers taking  _ hours  _ to scrub the ash and dust from his skin the day after. He remembers rubbing some of his ma’s special ointment for burns into the raw skin of his knees and palms, where embers had burned through his flesh. He remembers packing up everything he could with shaking hands, and leaving as soon as he could. 

He remembers it with such clarity, that sometimes, he can’t discern reality from memory. 

And now, warm hands are holding him down as he thrashes and yells, and there’s an insistent voice breaking through the haze of memory, calling his name. The same voice, snapping out a sharp command in Latin, and his mind suddenly clearing. He’s in his bed, in his and Natalia’s flat. He’s safe, and there is no stomach-wrenching scent of burning flesh smoldering in his nostrils. 

He takes a deep breath, half expecting to take in smoke, and lets it out. He’s drenched in sweat, and his chest is still heaving as he pants. The lights are on, and he can see Nat’s concerned face hovering above him. Her flame-red hair is pulled back from her face in a sleep-rumpled bun, and her eyes are wide and startling green. It calms him even further, and he lets himself bask in the pine scent that comes from her in wisps. 

“Thanks, Nat,” he forces out, and her eyebrows draw together. 

She moves away from him, removing her hands, and sits on the edge of his bed, rubbing at her collarbones - a nervous habit. “Misha was yowling,” she says, voice thick with her Russian accent. “There was - it smelt like smoke.” She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, the green is tinged with orange. 

He looks away. “The last burning,” he offers, and he catches the movement of her face crumpling. 

She doesn’t say anything. Misha, her golden Maine Coon cat, is sitting at the end of Bucky’s bed. His emerald eyes are wide, and the fur along his spine is raised. He looks disgruntled. Bucky makes a clicking noise in his throat, and the cat stands up and pads up the bed to settle into the crook under Bucky’s flesh armpit. It still hurts - the memory is fresh in his mind, but he’s calm now. The unsettling reality of it is gone. 

“You’ll be alright till morning?” Nat asks quietly.

He turns his head and smiles at her, darkness heavy in his chest. It feels like flames are prickling along his flesh arm. He feels nothing on the metal one. Nat must sense it, or at least sense how off kilter he is, because as she leaves the room, she lights a candle and whispers something to it. 

He manages to sink back into a flameless sleep. 

~

The morning after the full moon is bleak. Bucky can feel the echo of his dream buzzing like an undercurrent in the air, and there are clouds settling low over Brooklyn. He moves, sluggish, to the kitchen, Misha following him for breakfast. Bucky’s got a blanket draped over his shoulders, and he’s cold despite the heater on in the lounge, which is connected by open floor plan to the kitchen. He feeds Misha his biscuits, eyes still half-shut, and shuffles over to the couch with a bowl of cheerios for himself. He settles into the cushions, and eats. 

Nat comes out of her room, dressed in black, and absentmindedly pulling her hair into a braid. She’s got a fire agate gemstone hanging around her neck, which means she’s heading out today. She puts bread in the toaster, and begins filling up the kettle. 

“Tea?” she asks from behind the counter. 

Bucky swallows his mouthful of cheerios. “Coffee, pretty please,” he replies, and works on finishing his breakfast. 

He hears the kettle click on before Nat speaks again. “We’re going out today,” she says, walking ever-silently over to her chair in the lounge. She settles into it, and sets him with a calm stare. He meets the look, and sets her with a dead-eyed expression that he hopes conveys his very heart-felt  _ no.  _ She sighs. “Yes, James. We need groceries.”

He groans, and sets his empty bowl down on the coffee table. “Why do  _ I  _ have to come?” he asks, standing up from the couch to pour their hot drinks. She follows him, moving to where her toast has finished. 

“Because you always complain about what I buy. It’s easier if we’re both there,” she explains, spreading nutella on her toast. 

Bucky stirs in the milk, scowling down at the spinning teaspoon. “Fine. Lemme shower first, though.”

Nat just waves a hand, and takes her offered cup of tea, and returns to her chair in the lounge. Bucky sips at his coffee, and gets halfway through it before deciding he doesn’t want it anymore. He heads off to the bathroom, and turns the shower up to scalding. 

~

He gets that ugly feeling in his stomach the moment they walk outside of the apartment building. He shares a look with Nat, but she just shrugs and keeps walking. He follows her, trying to block everything out like he normally does - it’s early, everyone’s heading to work, and there are so, so many people. Their emotions and energies are pushing at the walls carefully placed around Bucky’s mind. He’s already got a pounding headache. 

They walk with no rush to the supermarket, and breeze through the shopping with no incidents. The each take their fair share of bags, and begin the walk back. They take the quickest route, which goes onto the main street for a little while. And here, here is when Bucky sees the reason for the horrible feeling turning over and over in his gut. 

Because, just because the law accepts witches now, doesn’t mean every single person does. 

He sees Nat go stiff out of the corner of his eye, sees her jaw clench as she zeros in on the protestors. He immediately walks a little faster, a little closer to her. She glares at him for a moment, but hurries along as well. He wants to tell her to tuck her gemstone under her shirt, but he knows she won’t - not even for her own safety. So he grits his teeth, keeps his head down and tries to shield her from the protestors eyes. 

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t a good idea to act like something was wrong in the first place. They get past the group of protestors easily enough, but when they turn down a back road that leads straight to their place, it turns out they were followed. 

Nat picks up on it before he does. She slows down, and turns around. He does the same the moment he notices, and comes to hover behind her shoulder, glaring at the three men. There’s a clear leader among them, and he sneers at them.

“What’s a couple ‘a witches like you doin’ out?” he says, voice low and filled with what Bucky’s sure the guy thinks is danger. 

“Grocery shopping,” Nat replies, and  _ her  _ tone of voice sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. 

Friction rubs at his skin, the air growing uncomfortably heated around him. He’s the only one able to pick it up, though, he knows. Nat’s form is buzzing slightly around the edges, and anger pulses from her in hyper-sensitive waves, making his head reel. Bucky wants to turn and go, avoid the confrontation he can tell is going to happen, but then again...He lowers his chin, glaring at the three guys, and barely holds back a snarl. His metal arm whirrs, and he can hear the plates snapping together, shifting around to accommodate how he’s suddenly clenching his fist.

“Hey, ain’t you the witch that messed with my brother?” one of the guys questions, his voice gruff and low. 

Bucky’s not looking, but he knows Nat’s eyes are burning with barely controlled fire. “You mean saved his life?” she growls.

People are looking, now. The three guys seem to notice, too, and they looks slightly put out. They assess Bucky and Nat, and then the leader apparently comes to a decision. “Not here,” he mutters to his mates, and then sends a dark look at Bucky and Nat. They leave.

Bucky rolls his shoulders, and nudges Nat’s shoulder with his own. She snaps out of the haze she’d been in, and looks up at him. “People like that are disgusting,” she spits, and storms off.

He just follows, skin still prickling. 

~

Bucky walks the night, sometimes, when the air can’t decide if it wants to be cold or bone-cold, and the moon peeks out from behind the clouds. He pulls a warm jacket on, and ties an obsidian gemstone necklace around his neck, letting it rest beside his tags. He ties his boots silently, grabs his keys, and slips out of the apartment without disturbing Nat. And then, with the day ringing in his ears and the world around him silent for once, he stalks down the streets. 

On nights like these, he pushes the sleeve on his left arm up, lets the hem rest just above his metal elbow. He likes the way the moon glints off the silver, casting shadowy light onto the pavement. He likes the way the darkness envelopes him, wrapping around his shoulders like a cloak and hiding him from prying eyes. He likes the way his feet know to step around the patches of yellow the streetlights leave on the ground in front of him. 

Most of all, he likes not knowing where he’ll end up.

So he wanders, avoiding being seen, avoiding the  _ chance  _ of being seen. He walks for who knows how long, eyes cast up to the sky every now and then to judge how much time has past by the position of the moon. His flesh fingers are cold, and a little numb, but his metal hand is, as always, not picking up on any temperature. 

There is no overwhelming onslaught of other people’s emotions and energies. He is alone, and it’s bliss. His boots make no sound on the pavement as he steps around a corner, turning onto a dimly lit street. The wind’s picked up, and it blows his hair back from his face, setting a chill into his bones. He grits his teeth, and wonders if it’s time to turn back. 

And then they stumble out of the building, laughing and leering at each other. 

They’re clearly drunk, and Bucky feels the discomfort stab at his gut the moment one of them turns to look at him. And, of course, it’s the guy from earlier today, when he and Nat had gone grocery shopping. Fear slides along after the discomfort, settling like yarrow in his stomach, threatening to come up. He chokes it down, and takes a step back. 

He’s not a coward, and he can fight. He’s just not stupid. It’s four against one - there are some new people along with the jerk he recognises. Adrenaline jolts down his spine, and heat flushes across his face. His gut is telling him to run, so he does. But they run after him, jeering and cackling. One of them has a lighter out and it flicking at it, quick stabs of flame shooting up into the night air. 

Bucky hasn’t been this afraid since the war. And, really, he could probably take them down without dying, but there’s no one else around. Who knows what weapons these people have on them. 

“Scared of a little fire, witch-boy?!” comes from behind him, far too close. 

He bolts. He pushes his legs faster, and pumps his arms. He darts around a corner, tilting to the right, and keeps going. He risks a glance behind him; they’re still after him. One of them has slowed down, and has a phone pressed to his ear. Bucky’s eyes - ever keen - pick up the tattoo on his bare inner forearm. 

The image stabs through his eyes, and smoke fills his lungs, and he goes down. 

A broadsword surrounded by flames, the incantation  _ adolebit que maleficus  _ resting just below the hilt of the sword. Latin, mocking the witches language, promising to burn them. It was on the flag that was waved around as Bucky’s ma burned. He’ll  _ never  _ forget it. 

The stinging in his knees brings him back to the present as they swarm around him like a pack of wolves. He goes to get up, goes to fight, but hands grip at his shoulders, and their  _ energy -  _ dark, sticky pools of black hatred - takes his knees out as it shoots through him. He grunts, and lashes out with his metal arm. He catches someone’s jaw, hears it crack. He might as well be blind, though, from their overwhelming emotions, and he’s far too shaky to calculate where they are. 

Fear pools in his gut. It was easier in the army - he wasn’t a witch, and everyone knew it. Here, though, these people don’t know that he’s not. They saw him associating with a well-known witch, and by that alone - he’s lower than dirt to them. So he grits his teeth, and tries to get his bearings. He knows very well what their intentions are. 

Hands are grabbing at his arms, trying to haul him up, but he tugs them out of their grips, lashing out again. “Keep fighting, witch, it’ll be the last thing you do,” he hears one of them snarl. 

It settles into his bones - they want to kill him. They’re  _ going  _ to, if he doesn’t get his act together. They’re amateurs, wanna-be witch hunters, who have the upper hand  _ only  _ because of their numbers and how he’s cursed to be bridled with their emotions and energies. He’s a trained sergeant from the army, and until a few years ago, in the thick of the fighting. He will not be taken down by these people. He will not die like this. 

So he gathers fire in his gut, and surges up and away from them, hauling himself out of their grasps, and stumbles backwards, shaking his head to clear it. Some of the black spots swim away, some linger. He can see, though, the four of them moving to grab him again, and he can see as well as hear the van screeching around the corner. 

What happens next doesn’t make sense. He’s not a witch, but he does it anyway. It’s instinct, pure and driven by fear. He takes all the panic rushing through his system, grabs it in his metaphorical fist, and sends it out into the open air like a bright white signal. It screams in his ears, and darts off through the night like a swarm of bees. 

His head is clear. 

He has no idea what he’s done, but he focuses on the task at hand.  _ The body remembers what the mind does not.  _ He moves, metal hand darting up to catch the first punch, and he squeezes. He hears pops, and screams, and lets go. He doesn’t pause, follows through in one fluid movement, driving the same fist into someone’s face, and then drops low to the ground just as arms come from behind and move to grab around his waist. He kicks a leg out, brings them to the ground. 

He’s back up in the next second, sending a kick to their ribs, and then swinging around his his flesh arm to send an elbow into someone’s abdomen. A grunt comes from behind him, and he surges forwards to catch the guy still recovering from a punch to the face in a chokehold. He takes him to the ground, and then darts forwards to grab the last guys forearm in his metal hand. He bends it the wrong way, and stops as soon as the guy cries out. 

He’s in the heart of the fight, heat pulsing through him, when the van pulls up and three more guys jump out. He turns and runs again, boots echoing back from the buildings as they thump against the concrete. He takes a sharp left, disappears down an alley. He leaps, grabs the top of a fence, and hauls himself up. He stands, goes to grab a fire escape and keep climbing, when something smacks into his legs and sends him off balance. 

He crashes to the ground on the side he’d just run from. They swarm around him, taking advantage of his head spinning and aching like crazy. Something hot and sticky slides down his forehead, drops to the wet ground below. He kicks out, but then more arms are on him, holding him down. 

They’re saying something, sneering into his ears and laughing quietly. He’s choking again, thrashing on the ground. Gravel digs into his skin, but he barely registers it. From the end of the alleyway, the leader he recognised from the group saunters forwards. His right eye is swelling shut, and Bucky feels the sticky sweet emotion of being  _ glad.  _ At least he left the cunt something to remember him by. 

“This’ll be easier for you if you stop fighting, scum,” the guy spits, and Bucky bares his teeth at him. 

The asshole has a plastic container in his hands. He unscrews the lid from the top, and starts pouring liquid over Bucky’s body, which is still being held down by six men. He thrashes, kicking out and trying so, so desperately to get free, but it’s practically hopeless. The smell of gasoline burns his nostrils. 

The empty container get thrown to the side. A lighter is flicked open, and the flame burns hot in the night air. Bucky’s heart is in his throat, and his mouth opens in a last-ditch, terrified,  _ desperate  _ howl of undiluted fear. In this moment, he knows what’s going to happen. He just hopes someone catches these guys before they can do it to someone else. 

The guys fingers loosen around the lighter, and Bucky closes his eyes against the brightness coming from his end. He’s still thrashing, still fighting, but his movements are weaker as fear begins to paralyze him. He’s going to die. 

He grits his teeth, and wonders how long it’ll take, burning to death. He wonders when the lighter will fall.

Somehow, it never does. 

He hears screaming past the blood rushing in his ears, hears the familiar sound of fists cracking against cheekbones, hears feet pounding away. He  _ feels,  _ past his own fear, the darkness snaking away. It’s replaced by barely controlled fury, and dark patches of grey. And...Elderflower floats past his nose. 

He can’t open his eyes. He almost doesn’t want to. There are hands on him, again. Only two. It takes him a while, but he registers someone talking. 

“Bucky, c’mon, Buck, open your eyes,” the voice is shaking, almost too quiet after the storm of  _ loud.  _ “Talk to me, Buck, you’ve gotta help me here. God, please don't die. Please wake up.”

Bucky can’t. Oh, he wants to, he wants to open his eyes and croak out a ‘thank you’, but he can’t. He can barely breathe. Unwillingly, he lets the blackness hovering at the edges of his consciousness take him. He melts, coming apart a swirling smoke-hazed pool of elderflower. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings; detailed depictions of violence, attempted murder of major character, inner dialogue of memories of someone's mother being burnt alive after she was condemned as a witch
> 
> translations;   
> adolebit que maleficus - Latin for 'and burn the witch''
> 
> oh and I'm on tumblr at buckyskillingme if you wanna idk come yell at me or something


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all mistakes are mine, translations in end notes :)

He can’t move. He feels...Drained. Lavender is mixing with elderflower and...Brambles? It makes a pleasant combination. He feels lost, disoriented, and he still can’t open his eyes. His obsidian and dogtags are still resting on his chest, and he tries to use their weight to ground him. Slowly, he becomes aware of the fingers resting on his flesh wrist, of the soft mattress underneath him. There are people talking, somewhere, voices low and warm. 

He opens his eyes. 

Above him is an off-white ceiling, and it’s bordered by twisting vines carved into the skirting boards. To his left is Sam, and that’s who’s touching him, just slightly. He can feels the rivulets of calm, healing energy sliding through his bloodstream, so he doesn’t pull away. Sam’s watching him, eyes concerned and slightly terrified. Bucky frowns, just slightly, and goes to sit up.

Sam stops him with a gentle palm to his chest - bare chest? - and pushes him back down. Bucky understand why as soon as his head gets the memo that he’s awake. The room spins, and he squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a disgruntled moan. It hurts, and he’s whirling, so he waits in the darkness behind his eyelids till it goes away. 

When he opens his eyes again, he can hear footsteps moving towards him and Sam, and he tenses up, despite the intoxicating lavender swirling around him like a bubble. Steve steps into his line of sight, and so does a man with scruff decorating his jaw. Bucky just looks at them, and grits his teeth together. 

Steve speaks first. “How’re you feeling?” he asks, voice quiet. 

Bucky narrows his eyes, and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His throat is dry. “Like I nearly got burnt alive,” he croaks. 

No one laughs except him. He rasps out a cackle, and lets his head fall back against the pillow he’s been provided with. He feels slightly more intense concern coming from the men in the room, and wonders if they think he’s mad. They probably do. He’s still laughing. He stops, and huffs out a breath. He doesn’t say anything else. 

“I thought you weren’t a witch,” Sam asks.

“M’not,” Bucky replies, and turns his head to look at Steve again. “You were there. How?” 

Steve shrugs, and Bucky catches the tops of his ears turning red. “You...Sent out a cloud of panic. Apparently I’m the only one who got it, and I recognised it was you right away. I have no idea how you did it, considering you’re not a witch, but. It worked. I got there just when they - “ he cuts off, face going dark.

Bucky rasps out another dry, short laugh. “Well, thanks, for saving my life,” he mutters. 

“Your last name is Barnes.”

Bucky blinks. Steve’s looking at him, expression bland, but there’s sorrow and something else flickering behind his eyes. “It is,” Bucky says slowly.

Steve swallows, and looks down at his feet. Then he glances at the other two men in the room, and switches to a different topic. “You know Sam, but this is Bruce. He’s a healer; he’s the one who fixed you up.”

Bruce gives a shy wave. Bucky gives him a smile. “Thanks, man,” he says, and fights of the waves of exhaustion coming at him. He’d just slept for who knows how long. “How long was I out?” he asks.

“About ten hours,” Sam speaks up, eyebrows furrowing. “You had no contact details on you, so we had no idea if there was someone to call or not.”

Bucky groans, and it hurts his head. “Natalia. Shit. She’ll be out of her mind. Can you - do you have a phone I can borrow?”

Steve pulls a cellphone out of his pocket, and walks over to hand it to him. Bucky takes it with a thankful smile, and sits up slowly. Sam’s hand slides away with the movement, but no onslaught of emotion hits him. He doesn’t linger on it - he’s got far too much to worry about - but he watches as Sam and Bruce leave the room. He chews on his lip, and goes to dial Nat’s number. 

“I knew your mother,” Steve says. 

Bucky’s fingers tense, and he doesn’t type anything. He freezes, muscles locking up, and grinds his back teeth together before speaking. “How?” 

“You, uh. You saved my life, once, when we were young. Took me to your mother’s house, and she fixed me right up - I was freezing to death. My, um, my family was already gone, so she used to come visit me in my foster home and mentor me. Discreetly, of course. Only came over when they were gone,” Steve spills, and when Bucky turns to stare at him, wide-eyed, Steve looks slightly pale. “I was there when...They…” he doesn’t finish it. Bucky knows what he means.

Bucky swallows, and nods once. “I remember finding you in the alley. Never knew ma stayed in touch with you, though,” he murmurs. 

Steve casts his eyes to the ceiling, and the top of his collarbones are flushing pink. “She wouldn’t’ve. I, uh, asked her not to,” he hums, clearly trying to act nonchalant. It’s not working. 

“Why?” 

Steve closes his eyes, and his face remains upturned. “Because, I, uh. When I met you, I, um. We - “ he breaks off, and lowers his head, dragging a hand over his face. “I felt connected to you. Extremely so. But I knew you weren’t a witch, so I stayed away,” he finished, voice so quiet Bucky has to strain to hear it. 

Bucky doesn’t say a thing. “I don’t understand,” he eventually whispers, when the silence stretches on too long. 

He watches Steve’s throat bob as he swallows. “We - I said something, while you were in the room. Your mum asked me if I knew you,” he says. “I told her -   _ particeps anima.  _ One of the things she taught me how to do was dull connections, so they’re not so intense. When you first came into the shop, I didn’t recognise you - I’d fought the connection to much my whole life. I realised, after, who you were -  _ what  _ you were - to me.”

“What does that mean? The Latin words,” Bucky asks quietly, barely noticing his voice trembling. His very energy is vibrating - his flesh hand is shaking from where he’s gripping the phone a little too hard. There’s something fizzing in the air between them - he feels like he knows the answer to his own question already.

Steve hesitates. “ _ Particeps anima.  _ Soul sharer,” he mutters, casting his eyes to the floor, unable to meet Bucky’s gaze. 

Bucky stares at him, incredulous. He doesn’t speak. He knows - he  _ knows.  _ He knows what that means. It’s rare, one in a million, to have your soul split at birth and to have someone else’s half replace yours. It messes you up, leaves you wired like an exposed, raw nerve, till you meet them. You’re hypersensitive to them, aware of their energy in a way that only they can make you be. And - you’re connected, like Steve’s been saying. It usually,  _ usually,  _ happens exclusively between witches. 

Bucky swallows dryly. He stays quiet. He knows Steve’s not lying. He feels it too - the tug of the back-and-forth their energies are playing. Their souls are  _ aching,  _ trying to get closer. It nearly hurts, and he understands, now, why he’s the way he is. He shares Steve’s soul - he sometimes feels like a witch, has witch attributes, because of Steve. But, because he’s still human, it’s unbalanced.  _ This  _ is why he is the way he is. Bitterness darts through him before he can stop it. It’s not Steve’s fault, he didn’t make it happen - but. He knows Steve can’t stop it. Steve can’t cut the connection, but he can  _ solidify  _ it, so their souls are balanced - equal. Bucky wouldn’t  _ hurt  _ anymore. But they’d be more intensely connected than Bucky can possible imagine. 

Apparently the silence has gone on long enough. Steve looks up through his eyelashes, and then stands. “I’ll leave you to make the call,” he says, and leaves. 

Bucky feels the tug at his heart as his other half walks through the door. He huffs out a half-formed sob, and then pushes the emotions back behind his walls. He dials Nat’s number. She picks up before the first ring even finishes. 

“ _ James Buchanan Barnes,  _ where the  _ fuck  _ are you? Why is Misha screaming at me? Why did I get an image of your  _ burning corpse  _ in my dreams?” comes Nat’s harried, vicious voice. 

Bucky breathes out, and doesn’t question how she knew it was him calling, when it isn’t even his phone. “I - I’m sorry, Nat. I was out walking, I got jumped. The guys from before, but more of them. I, uh. Someone came and helped. I’m fine,” he rushes to say.

The other end of the phone is silent. Then; “what happened, Bucky?” she asks. “Wait, no, where are you? I’m coming now.”

Where  _ was _ he? He looks around, stands up carefully - he has pants on,  _ thank you -  _ and suddenly knows. “The bookstore you sent me to the other day,” he replies. 

He hears the questions Nat wants to ask, but she just hangs up. He sighs, and locks the phone. He looks around again, and finds a jersey at the end of the bed he’d been in. He grabs it, ignores the pinpricks of elderflower in his fingers that he gets when he touches it, and pulls it on. He shuffles out of the room, and finds the Steve standing in the kitchen, filling up a kettle. He doesn’t look up when Bucky comes out. 

Bucky looks around, takes in his surroundings again. Bruce and Sam are gone, and but he guesses they must be downstairs or something. “Uh, my friend’s coming over, so I’ll just get going before she causes a scene in your shop. Um. Thanks for everything, Steve. Seriously. I owe you,” he says.

Steve looks up, setting the kettle down. His eyes are slightly glassy, and his knuckles are white. Bucky’s eyes flicker past these little details, and he looks away, before finding his gaze being drawn back like a magnet. “You can stay here, if you want. I don’t mind,” Steve replies eventually. 

Bucky chews on his bottom lip. “Look, Steve, I’m not going to go and never come back. We - we have a lot to talk about. But you  _ really  _ don’t want your first meeting with Nat to be while she’s like this.”

Steve observes him silently, before dipping his head once in a tiny nod. “You promise you’ll come back?” he asks, voice quiet and unsure. 

Bucky feels like he’s trodden on a live wire. His nerves are hot, exposed, and he’s so on edge it’s not funny. “Yeah, Steve,” he breathes, and finds himself stepping forwards. Nothing is making sense. Everything is confusing and he should be freaking out a bit more about the fact that he nearly died, but all he can focus on is Steve. “Can I…?” he trails off, stepping a little closer. 

Steve gives him a little smile, and Bucky crumples, moving into his space and wrapping his arms around him. He vaguely acknowledges that no one said anything about his arm. But the thought flies away as he and Steve press their bodies together, burying themselves in the hug. 

It feels like coming home.

Everything in Bucky just...Settles. He feels calm. He feels - like he should feel. Nothing is protruding at his thoughts, no one's energies are screaming at the walls in his minds. He relaxes, and breathes out all the pent up frustration and fear and restless  _ emotion.  _ Steve seems to do the same, and Bucky has to force himself to pull away. 

“I’ll be back,” he promises, and has to keep his eyes on the ground so he doesn’t go in for another hug. 

He’s in way too deep, and he barely even knows the guy. He’s addicted. Not - it’s not  _ attraction.  _ It just feels  _ right.  _ Bucky’s been aromantic and asexual since  _ forever _ , and this - this is just...Peace. It feels right. He thinks he could live with being connected to this guy if it’s going to feel like  _ this.  _ As long as Steve doesn’t want anything more - which, generally, is expected from soul sharers.

He escapes the shop, waving at Sam and Bruce as he leaves, thanking them again, and rushes to meet Nat. 

~

Nat just about murders him with a bear hug when he’s done retelling the events of the night previous. Then she stews in volatile silence as he recounts what the men looked like - what their tattoos meant for the world of witches.  _ Danger.  _ There had been a group of them, and the fact that Bucky had nearly been  _ killed  _ last night means that they’re serious about taking down witches. The tattoo being brought back from the ashes means more than just the usual present-day hate. 

Bucky can already see the gears in Nat’s mind turning, and she stands, moving over to her writing table. She takes out the laptop sitting there, and starts typing. “What’re you doing?” Bucky asks. His hands have stopped shaking - they’re wrapped around a hot cup of chamomile and lavender tea. It gives him something to do while his mind catches up to the fact that he  _ nearly died.  _

“I’m warning as many people as I can. They’ll forward the message to those they know. It’ll spread like wildfire, and hopeful -  _ hopefully -  _ we can prevent more things like this from happening,” she explains, fingers flying over the keyboard. 

He tries to stop chewing on his bottom lip - it’s started bleeding, now - and takes another sip of tea to calm himself. “Okay. Uh, there’s probably more I should mention,” he mutters. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Steve since he left. His mind is reeling. 

Nat pauses in her writing, and glances at him from behind a curtain of hair. “What more could there  _ be?”  _ she asks.

He sets the mug down, wrings his hands, and tells her all about Steve, and the souls they share. When he’s done, Nat raises her eyes to the ceiling, and huffs out a puff of air, like she can’t believe this. She drums her fingers on the desk, and then lowers her gaze back to level with his. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, then picks up his mug and sips at it, skin prickling as he waits for her to speak. 

“What’re you going to do about it?” she eventually questions.

He shrugs, and can’t help the way his eyes dance away from her prying look. “I guess I’ll just...Get to know him, or something. We can’t just...It doesn’t go away, I know that much,” he sighs, setting the empty mug down. 

“And if he wants more than you do?” 

The words sting through him - it’s been the forethought in his mind since he found out. “I’ll let him down gently and walk away.”

“It’ll hurt, now that you’ve found him again. More than before,” Nat murmurs, one of her hands coming up to grip at the sunstone hanging around her neck. 

He swallows, throat dry despite the tea. It churns in his stomach, uncomfortable and hot, so he switches the subject. “I’m going to go phone the police, inform them of what happened. I might have to run down to the station, so are you alright here?” he asks. 

Nat’s eyes burn right through him, and he knows she sees every emotion he’s feeling. He stands up, shuffling his feet, and goes to put the mug in the sink. Eventually, Nat replies, her voice coarse and brisk. “ Да,” she says, and he looks up at the sudden change of language. 

He raises an eyebrow, but she just waves her hands, turning around and starting to type again. He caught the look on her face, though. Scared - though she’d never admit it. For him and her and what’s happening. He scrubs a hand down his face, and grabs his phone. He’d left it at home last night, in his spare jacket’s pocket. He had intended to call the police as soon as he’d gotten back to the apartment, but he’d been so overwhelmed by the stench of gasoline sticking to him, he’d had to get straight in the shower. Nat had thankfully held off with her questions till he got out.

He’s holding off the freak-out, keeping it back behind walls. It’s slowly building, and he already knows what he’s going to dream about tonight. Every time he closes his eyes, flames flicker behind his eyelids. He’s still wearing Steve’s jersey, though, had put it back on after the shower, and he doesn’t have the energy to feel guilty about the fact that the lingering scent of elderflowers is helping him keep calm. 

Shaking his head, he shuts the door to his room and dials the emergency number. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Да - Russian for yes   
> Particeps anima - Latin for soul sharer
> 
> :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all mistakes are mine!

He doesn’t sleep that night. He had to go down to the station, after the phone call, and give a face-to-face account of all the events. He had to give them Steve’s address, too, considering he’d been there. They said they’d be in touch, with him and Steve. He’d walked home, on edge and carrying three knives strapped to his body, and his blood humming uncomfortably in his veins. Nat was nearly asleep at her desk, still on her laptop and replying to some clearly frantic emails, so he’d made her a cup of tea and gone to bed. 

And he’d lain there, all night, staring at the sky out his window. His window had been open, blowing the curtains back, but he couldn’t bear to shut it. The cool breeze had kept him calm, blowing over his heated skin. His mind had been moving at a million miles an hour, and he’d  _ itched _ to get out and go for a walk, but he’s not  _ stupid.  _

But now, black coffee can barely keep his head up, Nat’s got the TV on in the lounge, pacing across the floor. There’s a knife twirling between her fingers in her left hand, and she’s clenching what he’s sure is a piece of red jasper in her right. Her hair, ever bright crimson, is hanging in her face, and her eyes are dark. Once again, Bucky’s wondering exactly  _ what  _ her job was before she quit and moved to Brooklyn. 

The morning news comes on on the TV, and Nat freezes, spinning and standing to attention, all attention trained on the screen. The announcer’s first story is Bucky’s. The announcer talks about the events - keeping his identity unknown - and warns all witches about the group who had attacked him. The announcer looks grave, and hesitates like they’re going to say something else before they press their lips together and move on to the next story. 

As soon as they do, Nat turns the TV off, and turns to look at Bucky. He’s still sipping at his coffee, and his head is pounding, but he manages to focus on her as she grabs her coat and tucks her knife into a hidden sheath. “We’re going to Steve’s,” she snaps, and stalks out the door. 

He gets up slowly, narrowing his eyes at the movement, and shuffles over to get his own coat, leaving his half finished coffee on the table. He pulls his arms through the sleeves, and remembers to get his phone and keys, before tying up his boots and following Nat, locking the apartment behind him. He’s only in a ratty old band shirt and his old black combat pants, but at the moment, his mind is too full of other things to care. Plus, the pants have lots of pockets for concealing things. Like knives. 

Nat’s waiting outside the building, observing the streets with her jaw locked. She hasn’t spoken a word all morning, only gave him a terse nod when he muttered something about ‘ _ good mornin’, m’ - coffee’.  _ Her knuckles seem perpetually white, and he’s picking up on her energies. It’s making his stomach do flips in discomfort, the anger rolling off her in waves. 

She takes one looks at his appearance, and hands him a beanie that comes from nowhere. He just tugs it on and grumbles a thanks, and then they set off. The walk is quiet, and Bucky’s too tired to try and block everyone from unknowingly bombarding him with their emotions and energies, so he just grits his teeth and bears the onslaught. He doesn’t miss the way Nat’s eyeing every person that walks past, eyes dragging over any bare skin, and his throat closes up briefly. She’s watching out for anyone who could be a danger to them. 

They get to Steve’s bookstore fairly quickly, and Nat walks in without hesitation. Bucky follows more slowly, grimacing at the way the walls seem to be closing in on him. There’s no lingering scent of lavender, and he knows Sam’s not there. Steve is, though, sitting behind the counter and reading a book. The cat from the first time Bucky was here is watching from an empty spot in a bookshelf. 

Steve looks up the moment the chimes make a sound, and his whole face lights up with the smile he gives them. Bucky feels a little bit lighter just seeing it. The thought of it having something to do with the fact that he and Steve are connected - and he can simply feel Steve’s happiness - dashes through his mind, but he ignores it.

“You must be Natalia?” Steve says in a way of greeting. 

Nat raises an eyebrow, and looks around the bookstore, her eyes dragging over every little detail. Bucky’s not focusing on her, his eyes are trained on Steve, who’s looking back at him, a crease in between his eyebrows. Bucky shifts nervously, but manages a small smile. Steve grins back, and Bucky’s shoulders drop from where they were tensed up. His smile widens almost unconsciously, and he knows his eyes are doing their crinkly thing. 

“And you’re Steve,” Nat says suddenly, dragging Bucky and Steve away from each other. 

Steve nods, a fluid dip of his head, and he holds out his hand. Nat walks forwards and grasps his forearm, and although her backs to him, Bucky can tell she’s smiling. While they get to know each other, Bucky moves over to the cat in the bookshelf. The cat watches him with wide golden eyes, and he holds out his hand, palm up, in greeting. 

The cat stretches its neck out and sniffs at his hand, before nuzzling against the tips of his fingers. Bucky smile, and obligingly pets it, running his fingers through its long fur. The cat begins purring, and he scratches at its jaw, holding back a laugh as it presses into the touch, making it difficult to keep scratching. 

“That’s Koto,” Steve says, from way too close. Bucky’s heart thuds in his chest, and he spins around, willing the iron fist suddenly wrapped around his chest to go away. Steve’s looking down at him, face slightly apologetic, and Bucky takes a deep breath. “Sorry,” Steve murmurs. 

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, and then laughs breathily. “S’fine, just didn’t hear you come up behind me,” he mumbles.

Koto meows behind him as Steve slowly starts looking more and more sorry. Bucky rolls his eyes, and reaches up to flick Steve’s shoulder, and then turns back around to keep patting Koto. Now that Bucky knows Steve’s there, he feels extremely aware of the body heat that seems to be rolling off the guy, as well as the fizzling energy that’s crackling between them. It’s like static, like their souls know how close they are, and they’re responding to it. 

“Nat told me about the news,” Steve says. “I don’t have a TV, so I didn’t see it, but I’m real...It was good to go to the police so quick.”

Bucky shrugs, trying to breathe evenly through his nose. Steve being so close is starting to take a toll on him - the cedarwood is making his head spin. “Other people are gonna get hurt if they don’t know what’s happening,” he replies, a smile curving at the corners of his lips as Koto’s eyes narrow into pleased slits. 

“It was brave,” Steve continues, and Bucky sighs. 

“Look, Steve, I know some people have rough stuff happen to them, and they don’t deal with it too well, and they can’t go to someone who can help, but I ain’t like that. Sure, it was scary as shit, and I didn’t sleep last night because of it, but I’ll be fine. There’s no need to congratulate me for doing something that should have been done,” he says, irritation prickling from under his skin. 

He’s just - touchy. He knows that. He’s had enough of people praising him for simple things - like when he got back from the war with one arm and he turned up at the VA the next week. People were constantly congratulating him for doing something that was so  _ simple  _ to him. He didn’t need the praise. For some people, things like that were hard - or near impossible. He’s not like that. 

Steve’s silent for a bit, and Bucky can pick up on the way he’s backtracking, can feel his mind whirling as he tries to figure out what to say. “Okay,” he murmurs, eventually, and Bucky laughs.

“So what do you think of Nat?” he asks, looking around for her as he says it. 

She seems to have disappeared. Steve shuffles to the side, and joins in on patting Koto. Bucky gets it. The cat has a way of ordering people to pat him and make you think it’s your choice. “She is every bit a fire witch. She’s amazing,” Steve starts. 

Bucky nods, grinning again. “I know.”

“She told me about everything, asked me to get in touch with a few people to warn them. She told me that we should talk about our...Situation,” Steve finishes.

Bucky nods again, slower, and more serious. He pulls his hand away from Koto, ignores the glare the cat sends his way. “Yeah. Yeah, we do.”

The silence that follows is almost deafening. But also, somehow amusing. The back of Bucky’s neck prickles, like someone’s clamped their hand over his nape, and he knows Steve’s looking at him. “Do you want to come upstairs for tea? Sam’s gonna be here soon, he can watch the store,” Steve eventually says. 

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Bucky breathes out a relieved sigh, and steps back, finally letting himself look at Steve. 

Steve’s looking at him alright, with his warm, warm blue eyes that are full of open emotion. Bucky smiles at him, and Steve smiles right on back. Bucky thinks they’ll work this all out. But, underneath all his bravado, there’s  _ always  _ that unsure looming shadow - thick and dangerous like oil on a waters surface. The shadow whispers at him, sneering, reminds him of everything that could go wrong - he’s ace and aro, and although Steve’s  _ wonderful,  _ he doesn’t know him, and what if Steve wants more? How do you let a person who shares your  _ soul  _ down?

And that’s another thing - they’re already so connected already. How are they going to work through this if something goes wrong?  _ Will  _ they work through it? How much will it hurt if they decide that staying apart is the best thing? And what if they decide to play this out, will Steve always give Bucky a cedarwood headache? Surely it gets better. 

They go upstairs. Bucky feels Nat’s gaze on the back of his shoulders, and he knows she’ll be waiting for him when he goes back down. 

~

They put the talking part off, for a little bit. Bucky’s sitting at the dining table - a gorgeous, antique thing made from what he’s sure is pine wood, and the legs have beautiful carvings in them. He’s got a white mug of slowly steeping, steaming lavender tea - home made - and he’s letting it warm his flesh hand. His metal one is curled into a nervous fist in his lap. 

Steve’s sitting across from him, with his own cup of tea, and the pot sits in between them. Neither of them are speaking. Neither of them know what to say, really. Bucky’s staring down at the calming colour of his tea, watching the darker colours seep out from the tea leaves. Steve speaks first, because Bucky gets lost in his head thinking about all the things that could go wrong. 

“How much do you know about people who share souls?” Steve asks. 

Bucky startles, and looks up from his tea. “Oh, um. Not much? I know they’re quite - it’s quite rare. Um. They usually stay together for life,” he mumbles. He’s shaking, he realises.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve replies - sort of - and Bucky’s ears zero in on the way his voice trembles, just a little bit. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Steve bites his bottom lip, and squeezes his eyes shut. “I, uh. I don’t - shit.” He clenches his jaw, and Bucky’s heart thumps out an uneven rhythm. This is doing his head in. Remind him never to split his soul with someone again. (Ha). “I’m asexual. And aromantic,” Steve spits out, and then clamps his lips shut and ducks his head, his cheeks going red.

What? Bucky’s eyes go wide, and he fish-mouths while trying to figure out what to say. The worry slips off his shoulders like water, and he manages to let out a relieved sigh. “Oh,” he says. 

Steve looks up, and his eyes are slightly red around the rims, and  _ oh god please don’t start crying. If you cry I’ll start crying and I can’t stand crying.  _ “Oh?” Steve echoes, something bitter in his voice. He gets up, his chair legs scraping along the hardwood floor, and turns away. His shoulders are tight, and his jaw is working over from where his teeth are grinding together, and Bucky observes the way his fists clench and unclench. 

Bucky’s stomach plummets right down to his feet, because - fuck. He knows exactly what Steve’s feeling right now. “No! No, not like that, I was just surprised - “ he tries, and Steve’s started walking away, and this is hurting. 

Bucky stands up, too, and darts a hand out - his metal hand; he cringes when he realises - and catches Steve’s wrist to stop him. Steve glares at him, and Bucky wants to beat whoever first made Steve feel like shit for the way he identifies. Because if he’s having this reaction, then someone  _ has  _ been an asshole, before. “What? I get it, you expected more, you think I’m just trying to be - “ 

Bucky clamps his flesh hand over Steve’s mouth before he says anything else that hits Bucky like a blow to the chest. “Shut up. Me too,” he says. 

Steve’s eyebrows furrow, and he goes to say something. Bucky narrows his eyes, and lowers his hand. “What do you mean?” Steve asks, something vulnerable in his voice.    
“I’m ace a nd aro too,” Bucky clarifies with a shrug. 

Steve’s red cheeks go pink. “Oh,” he says. 

“Yeah, oh,” Bucky echoes, and smiles gently at the way Steve ducks his head again, chagrined. “Hey, it’s okay, I get it. Some people are assholes. Sometimes it’s easier to expect the worst so you’re not constantly let down.”

Steve sighs, and looks back up, eyes meeting Bucky’s. “Sorry. Should we - should we go sit down again?” he asks. 

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I still haven’t finished my tea,” he says, and carefully lets go of Steve’s wrist. If he subtly checks it over for any marks in case he accidentally grabbed him too hard, no one can blame him. He already cares about Steve. 

They go back to the table and sit down, Steve still blushing, and Bucky takes a sip of his tea. It calms his still racing heart, and he lets out a relieved sigh. “So, I have no idea how this works,” Steve speaks up. 

“Neither,” Bucky hums, turning the mug around in his hands. 

When he looks up, Steve’s biting at his bottom lip again, and his hands are wrapped around his own mug, but it doesn’t look like he’s had any of his tea. “So…” Steve trails off, and frowns. When he finally meets Bucky’s gaze, Bucky just smiles, and celebrates in his head at the way the tension slowly melts out of Steve. 

“Can we just...Wing it? I mean, I kind of - we can’t get rid of it. And you’re not exactly the worst guy to share a soul with,” Bucky says, taking another sip of his tea. 

Steve nods. “Likewise. Just. We’re friends, right?” he clarifies, uncertainty still lingering in his eyes. 

Bucky wants to wipe it away. “Yes, Steve. I mean, hell, you saved my life. I’m pretty sure it was you who cleaned the gasoline off me. I think that warrants  _ friends.”  _ he snorts. 

Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and Bucky’s heart melts. “You know, you’ve still got my jersey,” he says. 

This  _ guy.  _ “You’re not getting it back,” Bucky replies, and sips at his tea, glaring a challenge over the rim of his mug. 

“You can keep it on one condition.”

“I’m keeping it anyway - “

“Stick around? Koto really likes you.”

Steve’s voice is so soft, suddenly, and open, that Bucky falls serious again. He nods, and reaches out his flesh hand across the table top. Steve smiles and takes it with his own, and Bucky huffs out the rush of breath that gets pushed from his lungs at the contact. He fights down the need to take his hand back as energy sparks between them, racing through Bucky’s body white hot. It  _ hurts,  _ but Bucky’s going to have to get used to it and hope for the best. Because he is  _ so  _ sticking around. 

“Course,” he grits out, sticking on a smile. 

Steve observes him, and frowns, a small dip in his forehead. Bucky grits his teeth together, unable to fight down the pained shudder as Steve brushes his thumb over the top of Bucky’s hand. As soon as he sees it, Steve yanks his hand back, eyes going wide. “That shouldn’t hurt you,” he says. 

Bucky can’t help the sigh of relief as the pain flows out of his body. “It usually doesn’t,” he mutters. “It’s usually just your energy that hurts, not  _ touch.”  _

“Wait - my energy? It hurts you?” Steve looks crestfallen, and but when Bucky reaches out, lowering the walls in his mind, Steve’s energy is laced with confusion. 

Bucky bites his lip. “Um. A lot of people’s do, but I’m guessing that’s normal?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head. “How long has this been going on?”

“Forever?” 

Steve clenches his jaw again. “Okay, uh, we’re gonna look into that,” he mutters.

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, and finds himself drumming his metal fingers on the edge of his seat. It makes metallic clacking sounds, and he freezes the moment he realises he’s doing it. He sighs, and clasps his hands in his lap, pressing his lips together. “Fine. Now. Anyway. Tell me about  _ you,”  _ he demands, skin hot from the attention. 

“What d’you wanna know?” Steve asks, taking another sip from his mug.

Bucky shrugs. “Anything. Everything. Where were you born? How old are you? What’s your favourite colour? What’s your life story?” 

Steve looks vaguely daunted, but he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes for a moment, clearly gathering himself. And then he  _ talks,  _ and Bucky is hooked. He’s already attached to this guy, he knows. And the best thing is? It’ll all work out. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all mistakes are mine!! sorry for the wait. writers block and all that.

They talk the day away. Bucky spares a brief thought for Nat, maybe still waiting, but he knows that if she gets too bored, she’ll leave and text him later. Bucky’s curled up on one end of the couch, laughing at Steve, who’s talking about a disastrous christmas one year with Sam and Bruce and Tony - Steve’s non-witch friend who is apparently one of the smartest guys on Earth; both in mind and in cheek. They’ve been talking for hours, switching back and forth to share stories and little facts about each other, and they’d gravitated to the couch as easily as their conversation had flowed.  

And now, the sun is settling down over the city, casting a warm golden haze across the streets. Steve talks with his hands more than his voice, and Bucky finds it extremely amusing, as well as endearing. “So, that’s basically how I learnt how to take apart a kettle and put it back together to make it boil faster,” Steve shrugs, and then scrunches up his nose. “Even though I use a pot on a stove.”

Bucky full-belly laughs, and revels in the way Steve’s eyes light up and his smile goes soft. They’ve fallen in this as easy as breathing, and Bucky’s so glad it managed to work out. He feels  _ safe,  _ and he hasn’t mentioned it, but Steve’s energies have calmed to slow, drifting waves that knock against Bucky, instead of jabbing needles. It’s great. Maybe their energies just needed to get used to each other. 

“Your turn,” Steve says, settling back into his end of the couch and pulling the blanket they’re sharing up over his knees. 

Bucky bites at the inside of his cheek, and hums, trying to think of a story to tell. It comes to him fairly quickly - they haven’t really talked about anything serious; Steve knows about Bucky’s mum, and Steve had mentioned early on that he never knew his own parents. They haven’t talked about the wars they’ve both been in, so; “wanna hear about how I lost my arm?” Bucky asks. 

Steve’s eyes go a bite wide, and he clearly flails around in his head a bit, before nodding slowly. “I mean, if you’re okay to. You don’t have to,” he says. 

Bucky shrugs, already rolling up the jersey sleeve on his left arm. He catches the way Steve’s eyes dart down to it and then back up to his face. “It’s fine. It’s not - I mean, it’s pretty shit, obviously. I was messed up about it for a while, but I’m fine now,” he sighs.

Steve nods, and reaches out seemingly subconsciously, before tearing his hand back to his side. “Shit, I didn’t mean - “ he cuts off and Bucky laughs, a short, breathy sound, and offers his metal hand to him. Steve searches his eyes, before frowning slightly and reaching out again, running his fingers over the metal. A few of the plates shiver and slide over each other, rearranging themselves at the touch. Steve’s eyes go wide in what Bucky can feel is wonder.

“I was with my unit, we were transporting accompanied supplies. We were close to enemy territory, but we thought we were safe. Everything was planned, the plan was looked over by everyone a million times. We were safe,” Bucky says as Steve continues looking over his arm. “There was an IED.”

Steve looks up sharply, his eyes going dark in a way that sends a shudder down Bucky’s spine. His energy sparks something awful, causing Bucky to rip his hand back to him and grimace. Steve’s face softens to apologetic, but Bucky just shakes his head and waves it off. They’d talked about the way Steve’s energy affects Bucky in a way that Bucky’s doesn’t affect Steve. Apparently, the healer that’d fixed Bucky up was a soul worker, and would help them figure it out later. 

“Sorry. I - how did - “

Bucky smiles, tight-lipped, and Steve falls silent again. “Blew up on the right side of the vehicle. I was on the left. We practically flew through the air. It was - fuck. It was horrible, like falling.” Bucky shuts his eyes, remembers the fire. So much fire. “My arm was too damaged when help arrived, and it was trapped under - “ he pauses when he feels Steve’s energy dip into a black shroud of painful anger, and he opens his eyes to find a dark cloud passed over Steve’s face. “Steve?”

“Sorry, I just. You were still awake?” he whispers, looking vaguely sick.

Bucky nods slowly, and sighs. Steve blinks away the darkness, and ducks his head, shaking it. Bucky continues. He’d had worse reactions to the story. “They had local anesthetic with them, but. Nothing to put me under. They had to cut it off, just above the elbow.”

“In the field?” Steve clarifies, his eyes some form of sad and hurt. He’s imagining it, Bucky knows. Bucky also knows that Steve’s probably seen worse than this, probably even some of the same, but he gets it. It’s different when you’re stateside and you haven’t been in the war for years on end. You can hardly imagine yourself back in the field, dealing with this every other day. You perspective changes, and you can’t really believe that it was happening to you.

“Yeah, well. It was that or die,” Bucky hums, closing his eyes again for a moment to gather himself. The story was affecting him more than he thought it would. “So, we got back to base, and I was rushed off to medic. My arm was too damaged, and they had to cut it off here - “ he points to where the metal melds with his flesh at his shoulder. “And then I was sent home with honorable discharge,” he sighs. “Couple months later, I’m out of the hospital and moving in with Nat, and going to the VA every week. I get a call from this guy, tells me he’s looking for a lab rat,” he laughs. “I thought, why the hell not? So now I have this thing,” he finishes, holding out his hand again, metal palm up.

Steve nods slowly, something shimmering behind his eyes. “You’re insane, Bucky,” he retorts, and Bucky kicks out, getting him in the thigh. Steve yelps, and narrows his eyes. “I meant, you’re so brave and amazing Bucky, I can’t believe you went through all that, you’re so strong and inspiring,” he amends.  

Bucky scrunches up his nose, and Steve laughs. Bucky  _ knows  _ Steve meant it in a joking way, but there was also that glimmer of seriousness to it. The way Steve’s looking at him, he knows Steve’s still trying to wrap his head around it. Bucky doesn’t hate it, though, the praise. Not from Steve. He knows Steve means it, the undercurrent of warmth that came with the joking words. 

“I know,” Bucky says, lifting his nose in the air and sniffing. 

Steve laughs, and Bucky startles when he feels him intertwining his fingers with Bucky’s own metal ones. “This is amazing, though. Who was the guy?” Steve asks. 

Bucky looks down at the shining metal, watches Steve watch him, and then shrugs. “Stark, I think,” he says. 

“Tony Stark?” Steve echoes. 

Bucky nods. “I think so.”

Steve laughs again, short and full of something  _ akin  _ to surprise, but not quite. “That’s the same guy that taught me how to mess with kettles on Christmas,” he says. Bucky blinks in surprise, and but then Steve’s taking his hand back and settling down into the couch again, sighing heavily. “My turn,” Steve says. 

Bucky waits, taking note of the heaviness in the air, and knows this is going to be a serious one, too. He reaches over to the packet of biscuits that is sitting on the coffee table, and takes one, nibbling at it, trying to minimise crumbs. Steve’s energy feels bitter, and Bucky heart sinks when Steve reaches up with one hand and taps at a hearing aid.

“I was in the infirmary. Iraq. Got back from a rough patch with my division, it was just a standard check-over, make sure none of the cuts would get infected. Um. I got put back on the lines straight after, apparently there was some movement or some shit, I don’t know. Next thing I know, there’s bullets everywhere and a bomb going off right in front of my face and blasting my eardrums. Couldn’t hear anything, got down low, got out. It was hell, for a bit, but I got taken back stateside when they figured out I couldn’t hear anything they were yelling about. I got some of my hearing back, 40% in my right ear, but my left ear’s gone.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. 

Bucky swallows, and nudges Steve’s thigh, hoping to convey comfort. Steve just smiles softly, and reaches out. Bucky hauls ass and dives in for the hug. Steve breathes out a shaky breath beside his ear, and squeezes him tight. Bucky hums, smiling into Steve’s shoulder, and revels in the way the touch doesn’t hurt. They stay like that, for a little while, and when Steve pulls back first, the air around them feels lighter, somehow. 

“You know, you still feel the same,” Steve says off-handedly. 

Bucky frowns. “What d’you mean?”

“ _ Fulgur, _ ” Steve murmurs, like Bucky knows what that means. At Bucky’s dead-faced look, Steve scrunches up his nose in mock distaste at him, and relents. “Lightning - you feel like lightning. Did when we first met, did when we first met again.”

Bucky frowns harder. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“No,” Steve shrugs, and Bucky just sighs, sitting back on the couch. He keeps the physical contact - just their arms touching. It’s warm, and it’s nice. 

They sit in comfortable silence, aware of the sun going down and of their drooping eyelids. 

~

Morning consists of Bucky waking up in a cocoon of warmth, his eyes feeling heavy and his nose picking up the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Steve isn’t beside him, he knows that before he opens his eyes, but he can feel his energy moving around in the kitchen. The air is cool of Bucky’s face, but there’s a blanket wrapped around him and pulled up to his chin, and he’s somehow ended up laying down on the couch. 

He takes his time coming back into the world of consciousness, wriggling his toes before slowly stretching out his whole body, feet falling off the end of the couch and his arms reaching behind his head. When he relaxes again, and breaths out a contented sigh, laguid. He blinks his eyes open, and rubs at one with the heel of his flesh palm. Keeping the blanket wrapped around him, he sits up, wincing at the crook in his neck and the feel of the concealed weapons in his pants jabbing - sheathed - into his legs. 

He stands up, and keeps the blanket around him as he shuffles to the kitchen. First thing he spots is his phone on the counter, where he left it, and then his gaze drifts to where Steve’s pouring coffee into two mugs. Bucky lets out a happy sigh and shuffles on over to Steve, who looks up and smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Morning,” Steve says, and holds out a mug. 

Bucky makes a happy noise, and takes the mug, lifting it to his nose and letting the scent wake him up a little. “Thanks,” he hums, and grins at Steve. 

Steve inclines his head towards Bucky’s phone. “You’ve got missed calls,” he informs him, and picks up his own mug, sipping at it. 

Bucky sighs and grabs his phone, pressing the home button. There’s calls from an unknown number, and a couple of texts from Nat from yesterday saying that she was heading out and to tell Steve that his cat is awesome. “Nat says your cat is awesome,” Bucky relays the message, and then steps out of the kitchen to call back the unknown number. 

Steve stays behind the counter to give him privacy, and Bucky wanders over to the window that overlooks the street below. The phone rings three times before someone picks up. They talk immediately, voice professional and terse, and Bucky feels his stomach sink into the floor. His body language or energies must convey how he’s feeling, because Steve comes over and sits at the dining table to wait for him. 

When the phone call ends, Bucky locks his phone and tucks it into one of his pockets. He takes a long sip of coffee, and then turns around. He ignores his shaking flesh hand, and simply switches the mug to be held in his metal one. “The was someone from the police department. They think they’ve found one of the suspects, but they want me to go down and identify him,” he says. 

Steve frowns, and looks up at him over the rim of his mug. “I could go with you, if you’d like,” he murmurs. 

Bucky bites at his lip, and then nods slowly. “Yeah, that’d - yes, please.”

Steve just smiles, and takes a sip of his coffee. “You can have a shower, if you need. There’s stuff to wash your hair in there, and I don’t mind if you borrow some clothes.” He pauses, and narrows his eyes. “But you have to give these ones back.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, and scoffs. “What do you take me for?” he asks, and sits down at the table. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks,” he murmurs, unable to help the smile that creeps over his face. 

“You’ll be alright? Going down to the station? Seeing that person?” Steve asks, and when Bucky observes him curiously, he picks up on tiny spikes of anger. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Will you?” he counters. 

Steve’s knuckles go white from where he’s now gripping the mug too hard, and he averts his eyes, glaring at the table top. “I’ll be fine. Not like I can do anything while there’s cops around, right?” he sighs. The last few word hold an undercurrent of humor, and Bucky relaxes. 

“Right,” he replies, snickering into his mug, and finishes his coffee with a last sip. 

He stands up, and Steve does too. “I’ll show you where the shower is,” he says, and Bucky follows him down a tiny hallway and into a bathroom. 

He shows Bucky how to work the shower, and then retreats, leaving him a towel and promising to get some clothes for him. Bucky smiles and shuts the door, and turns the shower on. The room is small, but it’s  _ nice,  _ wooden walls and white tiles behind the shower. There’s ferns thriving in every corner, and several candles decorating the basin. The water heats up quickly, and Bucky strips, grimacing as he finds indents in his legs from the knives. 

He steps under the spray, and sighs as the steady beating of the water massages tight knots out from behind his shoulder blades. There’s lavender soap, and banana shampoo and conditioner. Bucky rubs the shampoo into his hair, and then picks up the soap, lathering some onto a flannel and scrubbing imaginary dirt from his skin. He can still feel gasoline drenching his body, sometimes, just little flashes of it. 

He wonders, then, if he really will be okay facing one of the guys who tried to kill him. He clenches his jaw, pausing in the act of washing the shampoo out. He’s had worse - he’s has his damn arm blown off. Going down to the station to see one  _ secured  _ guy is nothing. He knows this. It’s just. He knows what the screams of a burning person sound like. He knows that  _ he  _ could have made those sounds. He would have, if Steve hadn’t made it on time. 

He blows out a shaky breath and reaches for the conditioner, thanking Steve in his head again and again. It’s sunk in now, how dire the situation in. His knees are shaking. He steadies himself, reaching out his flesh hand and placing it on the shower wall. Maybe it’s the heat of the shower, but his vision is blurring. He squeezes his metal hand into a fist, and slowly sinks down into a sitting position. 

The water cascades down over him, and he watches the rivulets run down his skin. His palms are facing up on his knees, and he focuses on the lines there. Drop of water come in a steady stream from strands of his hair, and he tries to count each one. It’s impossible, but it distracts him from the way his breathing has sped up to the point where he’s seeing black spots in his vision.

He knows what this is. He hasn’t had a panic attack in a while. His chest is heaving, and his head is spinning, and soon the little distractions aren’t enough. Panic envelops him, and soon he’s panting, trying to suck in enough air, even though he already is. He knows he’s getting enough air, but his mind isn’t getting the memo. He grips the edge of the bath, and bends over himself, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to slow his breathing and calm down. 

The water’s too hot, but the fog in his brain is starting to clear, and he focuses on doing the breathing exercises his therapist had given him when he first came back stateside. It works, slowly, and then he’s exhausted, and slumping back to the floor of the bath. He reaches up and turns the shower off, knowing that while his head had been under the spray, it’d gotten rid of the conditioner. 

His arms - both metal and flesh - feel like deadweights, but he slowly, slowly sits up, and uses the sides of the bath to stay upright in his sitting position. He stands up just as carefully, and dries himself off with little effort, before wrapping the towel around his waist and opening the bathroom door. There’s a pile of clothes outside, and he steps back into the room to put them on. 

The shirt is a little too tight around his arms, but he can barely find the energy to care. He walks out to the dining room/kitchen, and pastes on a smile. Steve’s at the kitchen counter, gripping the edges of the countertop, and he’s gone pale. His eyes dart up and cut to Bucky the moment he walks into the room, and Bucky watches in confusion as Steve straightens up and walks over to him. Bucky catches the slight shake in Steve’s hands. 

Steve looks him over, lips white from where they’re pressed into a thin line, and then breathes out an unsteady breath. “Are you alright? I felt - I don’t know,” he says, voice small.

A lump forms in Bucky’s throat, and he ducks his head. So Steve  _ can  _ feel his emotions. “M’fine, really. Just. Panicked a little. It all caught up to me,” he murmurs. He’s surprised at how easy it is to tell the truth. 

“Oh,” Steve breathes, and then arms are tentatively coming up to wrap around him in a warm embrace. 

Bucky sinks into it, a dry chuckle coming from him, and lets himself try and forget about everything outside this. Steve tucks him under his chin, and Bucky doesn’t protest, just tightens his own grip around Steve’s waist. Slowly, Bucky starts to feel better. He relaxes, feeling the tension and panic fully drain from him. The dark cloud hovering at the edges of his mind retreats, and he pulls back when the smell of eggs and toast registers. 

He raises an eyebrow, looking up at Steve, who just smiles at him. “Figured we should have breakfast before we go,” Steve explains, and Bucky nods. 

  
They eat in silence, and Bucky gathers his things to drop off at his and Nat’s place before they head to the station. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I'm so sorry for the late chapter! It's the final one :) Thanks for sticking with me!

The moment they get to the station, Bucky’s stomach is twisted up in knots. Steve must sense it, because he reaches out and gives Bucky’s hand a squeeze before letting go again. They walk through the doors knocking shoulders for comfort, and go up to the front desk and let the person there know that Bucky’d been asked to come in. They’re informed to sit down and wait for five minutes, so they take a seat in the offered chairs, and Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“I can feel you freaking out, Buck. Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Steve murmurs, ducking his head low so no one can overhear them. 

Bucky sends him a half-hearted glare, and huffs out a sigh. “Yeah. I’ll be fine,” he mutters, and Steve straightens up, not looking the least bit convinced. 

They sit in prickly silence, Bucky nervous, Steve nervous for Bucky, and wait. They’re not there long; an officer with a back too straight to be comfortable comes in and tells them to follow her. They’re led to the other side of an interrogation room, with a one-way mirror. In the interrogation room sits, for sure, one of the men who tried to kill Bucky.  

Involuntarily, and shiver rolls down Bucky’s spine, and he notices Steve’s concerned look. “That’s him,” Bucky says. “That’s...That’s definitely one of them.”

“Is he the leader? You mentioned there being a definite leader of the group,” the officer asks. 

Bucky shakes his head, staring at the man through the one-way mirror. He can feel the gasoline dripping over his body again, and he has to close his eyes for a moment. “No, he’s just one of the followers,” he replies. 

“Alright, well, thank you for identifying him, that’s all we needed. We’ll be in touch, Sergeant Barnes,” the officer, who, with a glance out of the corner of Bucky’s eyes, looks like she’s trying not to appear sympathetic. 

Bucky nods, and shifts slightly closer Steve, needing a warm presence. Steve’s hand comes up to hover at Bucky’s flesh elbow, and Bucky relaxes slightly, letting his shoulders lose some of their tension. The slight touch sends a fizzle of needle-like pain through his arm, but he barely notices it, now. There’s too much on his mind. 

“You are welcome to leave, Sergeant, but we’d like to question Captain Rogers, if you have a moment,” the officer continues, shifting her attention to Steve. 

Bucky glances behind him to catch Steve’s nod, and the uncomfortable pinch at the corners of his eyes. “Can I stay here?” Bucky asks.  

The officer nods, and gestures for them to follow. Bucky sits down in the chair he was before, and watches Steve walk down a different hall, casting a look over his shoulder that Bucky can’t identify. It’s cold, in the waiting room, and soon Bucky’s missing Steve’s warmth. There’s a heavy feeling in the air, too, making Bucky clasp his hands together in an effort to keep from fidgeting. The questioning takes longer than Bucky expected, and that leaves him impatient, and worried. 

He closes his eyes, trying to slow his racing mind, and reaches out through the walls, trying to find Steve’s familiar energy. It’s not too far away, but it’s swirling around like a dark cloud, crackling with anger. It makes Bucky wince, feeling how furious he is. Bucky withdraws, coming back to himself, and finds the officer at the front desk watching him with a shadow over his face. Bucky ignores the way it makes his stomach clench uncomfortably, and glowers back at him. The officer looks away, returning to whatever he was doing.

Steve doesn’t take too much longer, and walks back towards Bucky with a dark look on his face. Bucky swallows, and stands up, following him as he stalks out of the station. “Steve?” he calls after him. 

Steve doesn’t reply, or turn to look at him, but he slows down from the rapid pace he’d been walking, allowing Bucky to catch up to him. Bucky comes to walk beside him at his side, glancing at him every now and then as they head back to Bucky’s place. Bucky feels slightly cold, but he knows that Steve’s mood isn’t because of him directly. _ He hopes  _

They get back to Bucky and Nat’s quickly, thanks to the apparent need to walk so fast, and Steve still hasn’t said a word. Bucky hesitates in the building doorway, and frowns at Steve, resisting the instinct to reach out and take Steve’s hand in an effort to make it all alright. Steve just looks tired, the scowl sliding off his face. Bucky watches as he turns his gaze skyward, and breathes out a breath that seems loaded with words unsaid. 

“Are you alright?” Bucky asks, voice quiet. 

Steve looks back at him, and closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see him at the moment. Something in Bucky’s chest gives a tug, and he bites down on his bottom lip. Steve shrugs without opening his eyes, and then sighs. He blinks his eyes open and gives a half-assed smile as he leans in and pulls Bucky into a hug that at least feels  _ genuine,  _ even if it’s not full of the warmth Bucky’s already used to. 

When they pull apart again, Bucky gives Steve a confused and concerned look, his heart beating a little too fast, and then Steve’s waving goodbye without a word and turning around and walking off. Bucky releases his lip from his teeth when it really starts to hurt, and clears the frown off his face before turning and walking inside. He’ll call Steve later, ask if he’s alright, and what was wrong. 

Unless, Steve doesn’t want him to. It’s not like they’re best best friends all of a sudden. They just share a soul. Which. The thought makes Bucky huff out a small laugh, before he schools his face and unlocks the apartment door. Nat’s in the lounge, and is a guy Bucky doesn’t know. He thinks he’s walked in on a session, but then one of the guys jumps up and walks over to apparently greet Bucky.

“You must be Bucky!” the guy exclaims, and Bucky is so confused and tired. 

There’s a dog barking happily from the couch. “That’s me,” Bucky says, and tries not to tense up too much when he’s being offered the most blinding smile. 

“M’Clint. Nice arm,” is said next, and then the dog is racing towards Bucky, golden tail wagging furiously. Bucky’s getting jumped on, and he’s so tired he just doesn’t care. He sinks to the ground, and gives the dog pats immediately. The dog’s licking at his face. “Awww, dog, no,” Clint’s saying, but Bucky clutches the dog to him and gets left alone. 

“How was the station, Bucky?” Nat’s asking, and when did she get there?

  
She’s kneeling down in front of him, patting down the length of the dogs back, skipping over where Bucky’s arms are wrapped around it. Clint’s sitting on the ground next to her, a smile on his face. Bucky frowns at him, notices the hearing aids, and wonders who exactly he is. He’s got bandages around one wrist, and pla

sters covering every second inch of his skin - he’s even got a couple on his face, and over his nose like he’s hiding a split there. 

“Fine. It was one of the guys. They talked with Steve, and I think something happened because he’s not talking and he feels...Closed off,” Bucky mumbles from where he’s shoved his face into the dog’s shoulder. The dog is wriggling happily, tongue hanging out. 

Nat hums. “Everyone deals with it different, it’s probably just caught up with him that his soul sharer almost got burnt alive,” she replies. 

Bucky waves his hand, and groans. “Oh, god I forgot about that,” he sighs. 

“That it’s not just one way? You’re an idiot.”

It’s true. “Point. Listen, I forgot to mention it, but we sorted it out,” he says. The silence from Nat is a question, so he keeps talking. “He’s same as me.”

“That’s probably not a coincidence. You share a soul, wouldn’t that suck if you got stuck with someone who wasn’t?” Nat points out. 

Bucky just sighs again, and keeps his face buried in the dog’s fur. 

~

His phone rings sometime the next morning, when the hole in his chest has started making an appearance. He’s not sure how he didn’t notice it before he met Steve again. He fumbles for the damn thing, face still buried in his pillow, and presses it to his ear after accepting the call. “‘Lo?” he mumbles.

_ “Bucky? Oh shit, did I wake you up?” _

That jolts him into full consciousness, makes him sit up and blink away sleep. “Steve? Nah, you’re alright, I’m awake,” he says, clearing his voice as it too wakes up. 

_ “Right. Uh, how’re you doing? After yesterday?” _

“Just fine.” He is. “How’re  _ you?”  _ he counters, rubbing one eye and glaring at the open curtains. 

A dry laugh comes through the phone.  _ “Yeah, that’s what I was calling about. I wanted to apologize. I acted like a dick afterwards. I just...There was no excuse. I was just mad, I guess.” _

Bucky frowns, guilty at the relief flooding through him. “I get it, Steve. It’s fine. How are you now?”

_ “Better, I guess. Hey, d’you wanna come over? I’m making pancakes.” _

“Serious? Hell yeah, I do. Gimmie half an hour,” he says quickly, already climbing out of bed. 

_ “There’s no rush. Sorry for waking you up.” _

Bucky scoffs, searching the floor of his room for a shirt. “It’s  _ fine.  _ What is it, anyways? Eight? I slept the damn afternoon away, yesterday.”

Steve’s amusement shines through with his next words, floods right through Bucky’s chest and shoulders, making him smile and pause for a bit.  _ “I’ll see you soon, Buck. Bring Nat if she wants to come.”  _

He’s already so much apart of Bucky’s life, and he loves it. They hang up after goodbyes, and Bucky pulls on clean clothes and tugs his hair into a bun. He’d showered before falling into bed yesterday, and the sharp scent of apples lingers when he runs his hands through his hair. He tucks his phone into his back pocket and then walks out into the lounge. 

Nat’s on the couch with a cup of tea, and Clint’s making coffee with some serious bags under his eyes. The dog - he found out his name was Lucky - is sprawled across the kitchen floor, tail smacking against the lino. Bucky smiles at it all.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Nat speaks up, her voice full of morning-warmth amusement. 

The sun’s up and shining, and Bucky steps into a patch of it, letting it settle over his shoulders like a blanket. “It’s not  _ that  _ late,” he retorts good-naturedly.

“It kind of is, for her,” Clint says, and then grins when Bucky’s eyes slide over to him. “Coffee?” he asks. 

“Please,” Bucky hums, reaching out and taking the offered mug. “Hey, Nat, Steve invited us over for pancakes.”

Nat looks up from where her attention had drifted down to the cat in her lap, and her eyes light up. “Really? Can Clint come?” she asks.

“I guess. Steve’ll be fine with it.” Bucky shrugs. 

Clint looks excited. “Can Lucky come?” 

Bucky shrugs again, and pulls out his phone and shoots a text to Steve; ‘ _ cn i bring nat clint and a dog?’  _ The reply comes almost immediately, just a simple  _ ‘yes!’ _ . “Yup,” Bucky relays the message, and then they’re all finishing their drinks and pulling shoes on and heading off to Steve’s.

~

Life goes on. Sure, things are tough and confusing, but it doesn’t ever stop. Things are good, too. Steve and Bucky find stability in each other, because their souls are forever intertwined, no matter the circumstances. Steve offers Bucky a job in the shop, which he takes, because he really needs to start helping Nat out with rent. He learns more about witches than he ever deemed necessary - and he’d thought he’d known heaps already. 

The witch hunter group gets taken down and many of its members are locked up. The streets become safer again. Bucky...doesn’t really go for night walks anymore. Sometimes he can still smell the gasoline on his clothes. 

He becomes friends with Steve’s cat, though. More often than not, he can be found reading a book, curled up in the corner somewhere with a cat in his lap. The scent of cedarwood starts to cling to him, mingling with his own. 

His energies settle down. Nothing is too loud anymore, and he’s not hypersensitive. It’s insane. He doesn’t miss it. 

His days are pretty much the same as before, except now Steve’s weaved his way into his life, finding space for himself. Bucky’s happy. 

Life goes on. 


End file.
